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Isaphene looked over her shoulder at her mother, but the look was not returned. The beans were sputtering nervously into the pan.

“Ain’t you got about enough, maw?” she said. “That pan seems to be gettin’ hefty.”

“Yes, I guess.” She got up, brushing the strings off her apron, and set the pan on the table. “I’ll watch the cake now, Isaphene. You put the beans on in the pot to boil. Put a piece o’ that salt pork in with ’em. Better get ’em on right away. It’s pretty near eleven. Ain’t this oven too hot with the door shet?”

Then the pleasant preparations for dinner went on. The beans soon commenced to boil, and an appetizing odor floated through the kitchen. The potatoes were pared—big, white fellows, smooth and long—with a sharp, thin knife, round and round and round, each without a break until the whole paring had curled itself about Isaphene’s pretty arm almost to the elbow. The cabbage was chopped finely for the cold-slaw, and the vinegar and butter set on the stove in a saucepan to heat. Then Mrs. Bridges “set” the table, covering it first with a red cloth having a white border and fringe. In the middle of the table she placed an uncommonly large, six-bottled caster.